


A Life in Moments

by RuinNine



Series: Cinema Verse [9]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: A+ Parenting, Established Relationship, Family, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Half-AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-12-26 00:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12047955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinNine/pseuds/RuinNine
Summary: A collection of ficlets set in the cinema verse that were too short to be posted on their own. There's a cat, a confession and a nosy neighbour from across the hallway.





	1. Resistance Is Futile

**Author's Note:**

> I promised to post these a while ago (I don't even dare look up exactly when), as soon as my life settled down a bit. It refuses to do so, so there you go. ;) As usual, these are not posted in chronological order, and also as usual, I thank lumaste for all her invaluable support.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In here: Family fluff galore. And the promised cat.

— † —

 

 

“No.”

 

“But Dad! I would pay for her! I have saved enough.” Her voice is desperate and he crosses his arms to keep himself from reaching across the table to soothe her. “I would-would feed her, look after her, take her to the doctor-”

 

“You can't drive yet.”

 

Her eyes tear up as she stares at him with a gaze so wounded and betrayed he almost gives in. But he can't. This isn't about earning brownie points, this is about decent upbringing. So he bites the inside of his cheek and stares back with the strictest look he can muster. She answers with a glare of her own (and he actually is impressed). The battle of will continues for another few seconds before Fernando softly clears his throat.

 

“I can drive her.”

 

Sergio's eyes narrow, but he doesn't turn to his husband. Bloody traitor. “I said no.”

 

Adelina's breathing quickens as the tears threaten to spill, but before it comes to that, she jumps up and storms off towards her room. Seconds later, the loud bang of a door being slammed shut echoes around the house.

 

“You knew.”

 

Fernando nods, but he doesn't look guilty at all. “Yeah. I did.”

 

Sergio unwinds his arms and spreads them in a helpless gesture. “You're supposed to be on my side here! Now I'm Darth Vader and you're Obi-Wan Kenobi. Thank you very much.”

 

His husband only sighs, not rising to the challenge. “Was that really necessary?”

 

“Yes! She has to learn that you can't always get what you want.”

 

“Did she ever ask you for anything?”

 

Sergio leans back in his chair and gives him a haughty look. “Sure.”

 

“I don't mean ice cream in the park. I mean something big.”

 

A pause. “No.”

 

“I guess your point is standing on rather shaky legs then.” Fernando mirrors his defiant pose and shrugs. “Besides, it's just a-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, 'just',” Sergio grumbles and pulls a hand down his face. “And then it's a dog, and then a horse, and then what? A giraffe?”

 

“Oh, come on.”

 

“You should've told me. I can't be the villain all the time, Nando.”

 

Fernando looks at him in silence for a moment before getting up and rounding the table to press a kiss to his temple. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

 

Sergio sighs and pulls him down onto his lap. “So. A cat.”

 

“A cat.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“You don't.”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

 

— † —

 

 

“Nando! Hey, Nando!”

 

“No...”

 

“Nando! Wake up!”

 

“Wha' 's 't? Stop sha'in me...”

 

“Fernando, I think the cat is in here.”

 

There's such a long pause Sergio thinks Fernando might've fallen asleep again, but then his husband turns in his arms. “I closed the door.”

 

“I _know!_ I saw you do it!”

 

“How would you know it's her anyway?”

 

“Well, if it's not you pinching my butt...” Again, there's a bigger pause. But then, Fernando starts shaking violently. “Don't laugh.”

 

That only serves to set Fernando off and he starts giggling. “You're... telling me-” He gasps for breath. “You're telling me that the cat is... checking... you out?”

 

“Well...” He focuses again on the strange feeling, but yes, there are definitely two paws pushing at him. Left, right, left, right... He shifts away slightly, but the pushing continues. “No one can resist my butt.”

 

That sends Fernando into another laughing fit. “Sese... she's not checking you out. She's just looking for a place to lie down.”

 

“What? No! Like hell she's sleeping in my bed!”

 

“Our bed.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

Sergio moves to get up, ready to kick out the cat and lock the door properly this time, but Fernando's hands pull him back down. “Don't scare her.”

 

“Do you actually want her to sleep here?”

 

“Why not? Pelo slept in my bed all the time.”

 

Sergio grumbles some inaudible things under his breath, but he relaxes back against the pillow. Reluctantly. “That cat is beyond any help. Your parents are spoiling her and I don't want that to happen here.” He pauses when the pushing suddenly stops. “Turn on the light. This is seriously creepy.”

 

“Is the tough Sergio Ramos afraid of a little tabby?”

 

Bastard. “Now let me tell you-” Again, he trails off. There are paws pushing at his leg now and then there's the unmistakable weight of a cat standing on his calf. “Nando...”

 

Fernando only laughs at him. Sergio has just decided that he will tell him off, then switch on the light himself, take his blanket and sleep on the couch when there's a push at his elbow. “What the-”

 

Before he can finish, the cat has wormed its way between the two of them, wriggling around under his arm until she has found a comfortable position. Then she slumps against him. Sergio doesn't dare breathe nor move, and Fernando is suddenly quiet, too. In the silence, the purring of the cat can be heard easily as it rises in intensity until Sergio is sure he can feel the vibrations in his chest. It is... unexpectedly soothing.

 

“And she's got you.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

 

— † —

 

 

I simply had to write this. ^^ Cats are the best.

 


	2. Friends Will Be Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In here: a (not so) unexpected slip of the tongue.

— † —

 

 

“If tomorrow's training session is gonna be like this, I swear I'm gonna die.”

 

“What do you think was bugging the gaffer?”

 

“No idea.” A long sigh, some joints cracking. “Whatever had him do it, I hope he won't make it a rule.”

 

He peers at them through half-lidded eyes, the ache in his muscles dull and subdued. Familiar. Iker and Cris are lying flat on their backs in the last rays of sunshine for the day, all but done. Dani is the only one with a tiny bit of energy left, playing a game of keepy uppy all by himself, but he's staying close by and in earshot, ready to add his own two cents anytime. They're the only ones left on the training pitch, everyone else eager to finally get out of here. Funny, he muses, they used to do this after training all the time, just shooting the shit, or pulling through some challenges, usually invented right on the spot. But each of them have a life now, partners, children... well, except Dani, of course. But the young defender has always been ahead of the pack. 

 

He blinks when his phone tugs him out of his musings and he reaches for it without really thinking about it – it's blinking and beeping all day long anyway. But it's a text from Fernando and in an instant, he's fallen out of the conversation of his teammates and focused solely on the tiny screen. He can feel the smile coming, but he's powerless to stop it, and as soon as it's on, dreamy and fluffy and so not tough, he knows it was a mistake to check the phone. But he decides to ignore the sudden lull in their talking anyway, especially when the first text is immediately followed by a second.

 

_** Fernando Torres to Sergio Ramos. 09:21pm ** _

_ Up for a late show? _

 

_** Fernando Torres to Sergio Ramos. 09:21pm ** _

_ That came out wrong. I mean at the cinema. Sorry. _

 

He snorts and reaches across the screen to reply, but the sudden silence is very hard to ignore and he pauses, mid-typing, and raises his head. All three of them are looking at him, with identical expressions of immense curiosity. The grin slips off his face and he shrugs, defensively. “What?”

 

Cris frowns, even though there is a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth, and points a finger at him. “I knew it.”

 

There's another text and again, his eyes are drawn to the screen almost against his will.

 

_** Fernando Torres to Sergio Ramos. 09:22pm ** _

_ Even though that's an option for later.  _

 

And in an instant, the silly grin is back. He resumes typing a reply and dismisses his friend with an indifferent shrug. “What are you talking about?”

 

_** Sergio Ramos to Fernando Torres. 09:23pm ** _

_ Yes to both. :) I'll be there as soon as I can manage to escape the inquisition. _

 

“Hmm.” Cris again. “I heard there was a commotion at NT training...?”

 

It's a statement, first of all, but he still makes it sound like a question. That trap is an old hat, though, and Sergio will not fall for it. He just keeps looking at the screen, without really seeing anything. But he knows the key is to look busy, so that's what he does. 

 

“I also heard it had nothing to do with your questionable hairstyle.”

 

Mocking his hair, also an old hat. Inwardly, he shakes his head. Maybe Cris is getting old. That has him grinning again and he steals a quick glance at his teammate. Cristiano is still watching him with curious eyes, but there's something else, something along the lines of analysing and calculating, and Sergio doesn't like that. Besides, he already dyed his hair back to its natural colour. It's not like it's still a sore spot. Challenge accepted, bet lost, put behind. Period. 

 

“There was a commotion because he developed a sweet tooth for someone. Talked to her on the phone whenever he was free.”

 

Usually, he doesn't really care for Dani's cheeky mouth. In many ways, the young defender reminds him of himself: he's honest, straightforward, won't take shit from nobody, but will also not stand idle when someone is picked on unfairly. And he may be packing a rough tackle, but he's never out to injure or avenge. He'll make a great regular for Real Madrid and the national team, there's no doubt about it.

 

But sometimes, he doesn't know when to shut his trap. “Watch it.”

 

Dani only smirks in reply and Sergio realizes with an inner curse that he finally fell for a decoy after all. Cris looks definitely interested now. Shoot. “So it's true?” Sergio doesn't reply and lets himself fall backwards until he's resting on the pitch, his overwrought muscles relaxing back into the grass. “Sese... Come on, you can tell us.”

 

“No.”

 

“Don't you trust us?”

 

Sergio automatically recoils for a moment before he catches on. He raises his head and shoots a nasty glare at Cris. “Don't you try the guilt card.”

 

“No, I mean it.” In a game, Cris is all steel and anger and determination, but he's got a gentle side he rarely shows, and if he does, it's only with a few selected people. It's on right now, and gah, that's so not fair. “If you can't tell _us_... How bad can it be? Do we know her?”

 

His phone vibrates again in his hand and he glances at the screen, releases the breath he's been holding.

 

_** Fernando Torres to Sergio Ramos. 09:23pm ** _

_ What's up? Need a rescue squad? _

 

He can't help but smile at the image of Fernando bursting through the doors of Valdebebas, with a red-and-white-striped superhero cape fluttering along behind him and dramatic music playing in the background, but it darkens as he thinks that it's unlikely to happen. No one will ever know he exists. And somehow, that hurts more than thinking about what will happen if anyone ever finds out. 

 

“No...” He has already forgotten how long he knows Cris, let alone Iker, and Dani – Dani is trustworthy, isn't he? “It's a guy.”

 

He closes his eyes, and he'd like to believe he was taken off guard, taken by surprise by their insistent questioning and their verbal traps, but he knows it isn't true. He does realize he's been waiting for the perfect opportunity for a while now, and he may not have been planning for Dani to be there, but oh well... it's too late now anyway. His chest expands with a deep breath, and it seems like it's the first time in many weeks it doesn't feel restricted. Patiently, and certainly calmer than he thought he would be, he waits for the moment of shocked silence to pass. 

 

He doesn't have to wait for long. 

 

“Sergio,” Dani snorts. “Stop pulling our leg. No one makes that corny so-happy-I-could-die face when he gets texted by a friend.”

 

Sergio considers a long and suffering sigh, but decides against it. It wouldn't do any good. “He's not a friend.”

 

“Then what? Family? A cousin?”

 

“Dani...” It's the first time Iker has said anything since Sergio got the first text from Fernando, and somehow, he knows his captain is the only one who has already put two and two together and got the truth out of it. Figures. The others take longer, but even with his eyes closed, he can pinpoint the exact moment when it finally sinks in what he's trying to say. It's like a goddamn _shift in the air._

 

There's another second of silence and then – “No shit.”

 

He would grin at the childlike amazement in Dani's voice, but the situation is far too serious for that. “Yeah.”

 

“You must be kidding me!”

 

“Dani...” Cris.

 

“You're-”

 

“Dani!”

 

“What?” There's a pout in there somewhere.

 

“Shut up!”

 

He can imagine the glares being traded between the two stubborn hotheads. Dani does respect Cristiano's standing in the dressing room as the extraordinary player and Real veteran he is, but nothing more and nothing less. Sergio suspects it's actually the reason why Cris likes him. Dani grumbles, but obeys anyway. Then there's a tentative hand on his shoulder and Sergio opens his eyes to Cris' concerned gaze. After all those years of being friends, he can easily decipher the question that's waiting for him there. He lets a few seconds tick by and then he nods.

 

He isn't prepared for the genuine smile. Nor for Cris to lean over and thump Iker in the shoulder. “Pay up, old man!”

 

Now it's Iker's turn to grumble while Sergio pulls himself up off the pitch, staring at them with wide and disbelieving eyes. “You bet on me being-” He stops himself, can't even say it.

 

“Nah,” Cris shushes him easily, much too casual in his dismissal. “Not really. But we... talked about it.” He makes a weird gesture with his hands, as if to say 'Well, what can you do? After all, it was _so_ obvious.'. Sergio can feel his blood run cold.

 

“Who else _talked_ about it?!” Not so calm anymore.

 

The grin drops off Cristiano's face and he adopts that concerned expression again. “No one.”

 

Jesus, it was a mistake. He knew it was a mistake! “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.” Cris frowns, confused. “Sergio-”

 

He doesn't get it. He doesn't fucking get it! Sergio rushes up onto his feet, and he sees them jump to alert out of the corner of his eyes. “Cris! You don't know what- how serious- shit!”

 

“Sergio.” Cris is standing now as well, reaching out to stop his manic pacing. “Sese! Stop!” His hand closes around his upper arm and he forces him to a halt with a rough pull. “It's fine.”

 

“Dammit, Cris, it's not! I didn't even mean to-”

 

“Sergio, chill! Who cares?” 

 

Sergio doesn't even look at Dani, because Cris shakes him once for good measure and his gaze is so unbearably soft. Sergio stares at him, dumbfounded, doesn't even know how to take it. Mocking, teasing, he can deal with, it's part of every dressing room. But this...

 

“I do,” he insists weakly. “ _I_ do.”

 

“Well, I don't.” Dani's voice is still laced with baffled astonishment and a tiny bit of disbelief, but his bravado is not entirely fake. There's that at least. “What I do care for is a picture of the lucky man, though.”

 

Cris spins to glare at Dani, but he can't keep his own curiosity out of his voice. “Dani!”

 

“What?” A careless grin. “I'm just saying what we're all thinking. Right, Iker?”

 

Sergio can see the mischievous glint in his eyes before he opens his mouth. That can't be good. “I certainly wouldn't mind seeing one.” There's something else, something that tells Sergio this isn't over yet, that they'll talk about this in private, and that Iker is hurt, a tiny bit, that he didn't tell him before. But Iker is a master at keeping his emotions under wraps and the moment is gone as quickly as it came up. “How long?”

 

And he always manages to ask the right questions. “Remember the loss to Atlético?”

 

A surge of pain crosses Iker's eyes, but he quickly blinks it away. He nods instead, impressed. “That's quite a while.”

 

Sergio nods and takes a deep breath. It's fine. Everything will be fine. “Yeah...” He won't add more. Not yet.

 

“Picture,” Dani says in a childlike sing-song tone, and he doesn't even flinch when all three of them turn to glare at him. 

 

Sergio finally lets lose that sigh that's been waiting beneath the roof of his mouth and bends down to retrieve his phone where he left it in the cool grass. He reluctantly thumbs through his pictures, and the nervousness that's settling in his stomach sets his teeth on edge, but he knows he won't get away without showing them a picture of Fernando. He can't help but think they're too close to fishwives for his taste, but it's the way it goes, so he doesn't complain. 

 

There.

 

It's not a great picture. It's grainy and the angle is a bit lopsided, but the feel of it makes up for any technical shortcomings. It shows the two of them in the projector room, sitting innocently side by side and looking back over their shoulders at José who's taking the picture. Fernando is shushing his father, pressing his index finger to his mouth, but he's laughing, and so is Sergio. They look relaxed, comfortable in each other's presence, and Sergio can never get enough of that photo, because it shows how he feels around Fernando. Calm. Laid-back. Free of all the pressure weighing him down all the time.

 

Now that he thinks about it, maybe it's too intimate a picture, too close to home, but it's already too late. Dani suddenly appears at his side, prying the phone from his hands. He cuts off Sergio's weak protest with a short slashing motion and his eyes grow wide as he stares down at the screen in awe. Good Lord, it looks like he's positively _melting_ at the sight. 

 

“Oh my God, I remember him! From the cinema!” He studies the picture with an expression of pure delight on his face. “Sergio, that's freaking cute!”

 

He did not just say that. “You did not just call me cute.”

 

“No,” Dani teases, eyes still glued to the screen. “I said you two are cute. Together. He's handsome, but he's not cute. And you brute are certainly not cute. But the two of you together... that's so cute I'll have to make a dentist appointment first thing tomorrow morning!”

 

Sergio growls low in his throat, more annoyed than outright angry, but before he can snatch his phone back, it wanders over into Cris' hands. He takes his time peering at the photo, his brow furrowed against the setting sun. It makes Sergio incredibly nervous. He catches the 'Well?' that's waiting on the tip of his tongue just when it's about to escape and hauls it back in. Instead, he trades a glance with Iker and is surprised to find his captain watching him with a strangely fond and thoughtful expression. 

 

“What,” he asks quietly as he drops down beside him.

 

“Nothing.” Iker shakes his head, but it's obvious he isn't done yet, so Sergio waits patiently. “You happy?”

 

Sergio raises an eyebrow at the question, but he doesn't have to think about the answer. “Yes. Very.”

 

Iker nods this time, as if that's the only piece of information he needs, and Sergio can feel a surge of grateful affection course through his body. “Good.”

 

“I must agree with Dani,” Cris finally says, grinning down at him. “That's the cutest thing I've seen in, like... forever!”

 

The two of them laugh giddily and shoulder-check each other and Sergio finds himself rolling his eyes. But he can't find it in him to be mad. It's fine, after all. It's fine. Iker doesn't seem to be in a hurry to see the picture, and when he turns back to him, there's the dreaded captain glint in his eye, and Sergio knows, with a sudden clarity, that he is well-prepared to go all protective over him. “When can I meet him?”

 

They only laugh at him when he buries his head in his arms with a groan. Bastards. 

 

 

— † —

 

 

Why is everything I write so fluffy? xD

 


	3. Man in the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In here: something that should totally happen.

— † —

 

 

"Thank you!"

 

The applause only reluctantly died down, so he took a moment to brace himself against the lectern. He looked down at the smooth glass surface, all blank but for his reflection staring back at him. He didn't have a list of things to say, he didn't need one. He knew exactly what he wanted the world to know. He also knew that if he risked a glance into the audience, if he saw his family (his, always his), saw how proud and radiant and beautiful they were, the words would get stuck in his throat. So he patiently waited for the commotion to fade before he took a deep breath and began.

 

"First of all, I want to thank everyone who voted. It's a sign that football is finally ready to man up. Because that's what football is all about: being a man. And that goes for the ladies, too." There was laughter, and chuckling, but he didn't even smile. He wasn't joking. "Each and everyone in this room has been told to get up even though they couldn't go on, to play through pain, to not show weakness." He paused and watched his reflection frown. The room was dead silent now, and he could feel the weight of their curious stares and the fretting of the FIFA board. _What's that madman gonna do now?_ Too late, you bastards, he thought. "For a very long time, I followed those rules. But my daughter and my husband showed me that being a man isn't about that. Nor is it about fast cars, or having a Rolex on your wrist. It's about being yourself and fighting for what you love."

 

He finally looked up into the audience and quickly held up a hand when a few of his colleagues already started to clap. His eyes immediately found Fernando in the second row, and they shared a soft smile before his husband gave him a tiny nod.

 

It was worth it. Well done.

 

He quickly took another deep breath when he felt his throat closing up. "So go for it. Be yourself." He inclined his head to the audience and raised the Ballon d'Or. "Thank you. Oh, and before I forget: Hala Madrid!"

 

Amidst the racket that followed, the answering calls from his teammates, the applause, the approving whistles... all he could hear was Fernando's disbelieving snort, complete with a fond eye-roll. And really, it was all that counted anyway.

 

— † —

 

 

Credit for the title should of course go to the immortal Michael Jackson.


	4. Light in the Hallway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In here: a commitment.

— † —

 

**If you're scared of the darkness**

**I will calm your fear**

**There's a light in the hallway**

**So you know I'm here**

 

—

 

 

_First time, first time!_

 

Sergio would forever deny it (not that anybody ever thought to ask), but his fingers noticeably shook with giddy excitement as he fumbled the key into the lock. He barely remembered to pull the door towards him by the big brass knob – _gently_ , Fernando's voice rang out in his head, _don't rush it –_ before turning the gleaming, first-time-used key in the high-tech lock that looked out of place in the beautiful wooden door. Just like Sergio himself looked entirely out of place in the art-nouveau hallway, with his club-issued suit and smart haircut.

 

It didn't bother him, not at all, when he hit the lights and took the stairs two steps at a time to the second floor. He was preoccupied with the aforementioned excitement – which was also out of place in this quiet neighbourhood at 3 am in the morning. However, when he'd successfully fiddled the second brand-new key into the apartment door, but instead of that one, the door on the _other side_ of the corridor opened... then it certainly came to him how highly suspicious he must look to the other parties in this house.

 

Cursing his sodden luck under his breath, he pulled on a fake smile and slowly turned to face the old lady who lived across the hall from Fernando. Out of habit, he carefully shifted his backpack, so that the strap covered the Real crest next to the lapel. He couldn't even be sure she could see that far, but it was always better to be safe than sorry. Besides, it gave him the time he needed to call up her name. “Señora Morales,” he greeted her at last. “I'm sorry, did I disturb you?”

 

Mrs Morales didn't answer immediately. She squinted at him over the rim of her reading glasses, and he pointedly kept from fidgeting under her scrutiny. “Ah,” she finally said, her whole demeanour changing as soon as she realized he was not a burglar, but a house guest. “Sergio, wasn't it? I didn't recognize you at first.”

 

“Right,” he replied, slowly, tamping down on the instinctive response of _panic-fear-flight_ to the imminent danger of a stranger connecting the dots between Fernando and himself. “That's me.” She simply smiled at him, so he motioned to the door and shrugged in apology. “Well, I'm gonna...”

 

“Yes, yes, of course. You young people are always in a hurry, I know.” She waved him off, chuckling to herself. “Give my regards to Fernando. And remind him to come by for tea on Sunday. He promised.”

 

“Sure thing, ma'am.”

 

The second her door was closed, he turned the key and slipped through the gap, quickly pushing it shut behind him. His heart was hammering like mad in his chest, and he didn't even have any breath left to laugh it off. The excitement he'd felt before had turned to a completely different kind of emotional commotion, and he shook his head, annoyed by his own response. He was obviously overreacting. A simple hallway chat, and with an old lady no less, shouldn't trip him up like that.

 

Or at least, that was what he was trying to tell himself. Since she seemed to be the only one to keep the same crazy hours, Mrs Morales was the only neighbour he had met since getting together with Fernando. And that had been only once, in passing. Fernando had introduced them before trading pleasantries for a minute or two, and then they'd been off to the cinema. Now that he thought about it, the fact that she remembered his name after hearing it once should raise concerns – or Fernando was gossiping about him whenever the two of them met up for tea. Which was hardly better.

 

Thinking about Fernando... Forcing down any lingering remains of the scare the old lady had given him, Sergio left the backpack and his shoes by the door and wandered down the hall. The tell-tale glow of a TV set showed him the way, and when he finally reached the open door, he couldn't suppress a fond smile. Fernando had obviously been watching a movie to keep himself awake, but it seemed like “Braveheart” wasn't as captivating as he remembered. Or, and that seemed to be the more logical conclusion, Fernando had seen the movie a hundred thousand times before and just couldn't stay up. He lay on what had become Sergio's side of the bed, curled up in a blanket and sleeping soundly.

 

A sudden aching filled his chest, and Sergio hurried to get rid of the suit, barely remembering to fold it as wrinkle-free as possible. Once ready for bed (foregoing the mandatory teeth-brushing seemed like a reasonable sacrifice), he reached for the remote and shut off the screen. In the sudden darkness, he accidentally knocked his knee against the metal bedframe, the sound echoing like a ringing bell, but Fernando didn't move when Sergio cursed under his breath and crawled beneath the covers and carefully nestled up against his back.

 

And for the first time since he'd left for the airport, stealing one last good-bye peck before Fernando had pushed him out the door with a laugh and two new keys, he felt at ease. As if the two weeks in between had been the most stressful he'd ever experienced – which was ridiculous, of course. Both victories had been plain sailing, he'd neither been involved in any fights nor any pranks, and this time around, he didn't even have any media appointments. Thus, the stint with the national team had been one of the most comfortable and laid-back tours in the long line of possibly quite stressful trips his job required.

 

And yet, he felt like he'd come home from a particularly long and exhausting journey, and as he focused on Fernando's heartbeat, quietly thumping against his chest, he suddenly knew why: The past fourteen days had been the longest the two of them had been separated since getting together, and it had proved to be quite the test for his well-honed lone wolf skills.

 

While they'd been busy aligning their crammed schedules and avoiding the observation traps of the press (and everyone else), their lives had mashed up to the point where they kept not only spare clothes at each other's homes, but also phone chargers and favourite mugs. It seemed like they had skipped the get-to-know-each-other period and simply went on to the can't-live-without stage. Not like Sergio had any experience with that. His relationships had never reached this level before, and it scared him a little how quickly Fernando had become an irreplaceable part of his life.

 

A crooked smile pulled at his mouth as he remembered the unexpected trouble he'd encountered. Lying awake in some non-descript bedroom in some non-descript hotel, he'd been wishing for Fernando's quiet snoring to replace Dani's sleepy mumbles, for his long limbs to take up all the space, for his pointy elbows to disturb his all too comfortable sprawl in the big and empty bed. The short phone calls he'd been able to squeeze into the tight training schedule couldn't fill the void – even less so when he'd had to fend off lewd comments from his teammates about some mystery woman leaving him a whipped mess. Sergio almost laughed at the thought. If only they knew.

 

As if on cue, Fernando muttered something unintelligible, his breathing pattern noticeably changing as he settled deeper into Sergio's embrace. “Hey,” he murmured, and there was a smile in his soft and sleepy voice. “I tried to wait up.”

 

“Sure you did.” Sergio nuzzled his neck, grinning when Fernando stretched like a lazy cat to give him better access. “You might have to move, you know.”

 

Fernando stilled in his arms, not alert enough yet to keep up with such a sudden change of topic, and Sergio could almost hear the cogs turning in his head. “What?”

 

“Mrs Morales saw my maiden trip with my new keys. She even remembered my name.” His voice was teasing, but even Sergio himself wasn't quite sure if he was joking or not. “So it's either moving out or murdering her.”

 

That had Fernando snorting with laughter. “Already planning on murdering my neighbours? I'm not sure our relationship has reached that stage yet.”

 

“No?” Sergio easily manoeuvred him around, their legs tangling together as he hovered above him. He crossed his arms over Fernando's chest and rested his chin on his folded hands. The lamps framing the park across the street gave just enough light that he could make out the grin on Fernando's face. “I thought we were on the same page about that.”

 

“We are.” Fernando's voice had lost the teasing edge entirely, and his hands skimming up and down Sergio's sides not only chased away the lingering chill of plane air conditioning, but also the short flare of uncertainty that had followed Fernando's careless banter. “And I guarantee you that she has no idea who you are.” Now it was Sergio's turn to snort (even though he didn't want to – he usually tried not to take his fame for granted)(he didn't always succeed). “I swear to God, that woman could name all the royals in Europe, and their children, and _their_ children, but she couldn't remember a single Spanish football player even if her life depended on it.”

 

Despite his insistent doubts, Sergio was intrigued. “Is that so?”

 

“Once during tea break, I tried to talk about the Clásico, but _somehow_ , she managed to bring up Franz Beckenbauer instead, and her swooning derailed all my attempts to get back to Real and Barça. Ever since, I've been bringing up random football players who are actually still playing – just for fun, because she always, _always_ gets round to Beckenbauer whenever I do that. Without fail.” He stopped to join in Sergio's laughter, wrapping his arms tightly around his back so the tremors merged between their bodies. “You should come, next time, and I'll show you.”

 

Sergio grinned. “Sounds hilarious.”

 

Fernando nodded, satisfied. “It is. Long story cut short, believe me when I say you're safe. I wouldn't have given you the keys to my apartment if you weren't.”

 

The casual way he said something so important, so momentous, brought Sergio up short. Every time Fernando showed his commitment to their relationship so openly and without the slightest hint of hesitation, he couldn't help but return to a familiar train of thought: in a way, he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Fernando to confess to leading him on, to take back his keys, to sell him out, to throw Sergio and his career to the wolves. He didn't have much to go on, after all, apart from his all too short relationship stints with various women that were of no help whatsoever. And it wasn't like there was a book on _how to determine if your secret gay relationship is working out alright._

 

Not to mention his own misgivings, apart from how serious Fernando seemed to be about their relationship (you didn't give your keys to just anyone, and after such a short time of being together no less). How serious was he himself about this, how long until the honeymoon phase was over, was the danger that came with this relationship _really_ _worth it?_ All these questions kept going round and round in his head, and he just couldn't decide what to do with them.

 

Then again, the data he'd already collected certainly served as an excellent experimental set-up. During the little free time he had to himself on a national team gig, Fernando had been constantly on his mind. And the few times they had managed to have a short phone call, Sergio had been soaking up Fernando's voice, storing his words away to hold on to whenever he had to keep going through muscle fatigue and aching joints. And the excitement of returning home to Madrid, to Fernando, told its own tale. _Seems to me like you're in it for the long haul,_ a tiny voice muttered in the back of his head. He couldn't help but agree. Grudgingly. It made everything so much more complicated.

 

And Fernando? Compared to some of the women in his past who'd either dragged him out to party and get revved up for welcome back sex or were so busy with their own jobs that they couldn't care less that he was about to come back at some ungodly hour... well, returning to a sweet, but failed attempt at waiting up, a soothing embrace that didn't have to lead anywhere and a trade of witty barbs beat those experiences by far.

 

Everything about him – the affection in his eyes, the warmth in his smile, the calm in his caresses – showed Sergio that Fernando obviously was content with simply _being_ with him. Sure, sex was an important part of their relationship that they both enjoyed, but it wasn't the foundation it was standing on, compared to some of Sergio's previous attempts. There was no need to impress with a fancy, picture-perfect lifestyle or exaggerated gallantry as Fernando himself wasn't looking for either in their relationship. A quiet night spent in the projector room at the cinema was just as essential for him in their bonding as bickering over La Liga highlights on TV.

 

With that shift in priorities came a significant decrease in stress. Being a representative of a world-famous football club with a long tradition of success came with a price: he was expected to act accordingly in public, as a role model for millions of fans and a role citizen of the country he represented abroad. With the women he used to date, he'd never been able to switch off in private, either, since he'd always felt the pressure to perform immaculately – as a football player, as a boyfriend and as a lover – so that the status quo of the relationship remained. And now that he had Fernando as a counterexample, he knew why being with him felt so different: he was the only one Sergio had ever truly trusted to stay when he dared let his guard down. And wasn't _that_ the irony of this particular relationship?

 

“Sergio. Hey, you okay?”

 

He startled, his eyes blinking rapidly as he returned to the present. “What?”

 

Fernando raised an eyebrow at him, but he was still smiling. “For a moment there, I thought you'd fallen asleep with your eyes wide open.”

 

“No, I... sorry, I was just thinking-”

 

“Oh, no. That doesn't sound good.”

 

And of course there was Fernando's completely non-existent need to play up to him at all times, something he rarely went without these days. The distinction between bootlicking and genuine friendliness didn't come any easier to him now than when he'd transferred to Madrid all those years ago, and he'd learned the hard way to put everything in the first box to save himself the disappointment. That Fernando didn't seem to care who he was _outside_ their own four walls (which included teasing the living daylights out of him at every opportunity), may be his best trait yet. Certainly great enough to be paid back in kind.

 

“Listen, I-”

 

When he stopped yet again, the smile on Fernando's face slowly vanished, and Sergio was painfully reminded of the day he'd knocked on the door to this very apartment for the first time, determined to make this work. “Sergio, you're scaring me here. Is something-”

 

“Wrong? No!” All of a sudden, Sergio felt like the air in his lungs wasn't enough to see this through, and he abruptly sat up. Fernando followed suit, his movements still tense, and Sergio instinctively grasped his hands, as much for Fernando's benefit as for his own. “No, quite the opposite, in fact. Listen, do you have plans for Christmas?”

 

 

—

 

**So count your blessings every day**

**It makes the monsters go away**

**And everything will be okay**

**You are not alone**

**You are right at home**

**Goodnight, goodnight**

 

— † —

 

 

Many thanks to Pentatonix for the lyrics!

 


	5. Brothers in Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In here: a conversation that's been long overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without spoiling anything, I want to say that the idea for this story struck while I was watching the last few qualifiers of the national team. I will never understand those 'fans' who boo their own team or, even worse, individual players. You either go to the stadium to cheer them on - whatever the situation - or you stay away to pout someplace else where you don't annoy the living daylights out of the fans who come to enjoy the match. Okay, nuff said.

— † —

 

 

Breathe in – 1... 2... 3. Breathe out – 1... 2... 3. Breathe in – 1... 2... 3.

 

Even over the counting under his breath, the whistles and the jeering can be heard, and Gerard struggles to reach three without miscounting. His breath rattles in his lungs, despite his desperate attempts to steady it, and after finishing a meagre half of the 800 metre run, he's already gasping for air, something that usually happens to him only after running eight _kilometres_ in a match. Jordi has been keeping pace with him, refusing to let him suffer alone, but all of his attempts at talking have been squashed by Gerard. He can't focus on _counting to fucking three_ right now, let alone a whole conversation.

 

A particularly loud whistle tears through the mess in his head, much closer than the others, and he almost stumbles as he startles violently. Jordi instinctively reaches out to keep him upright, but seems to think better of it half-way. Gerard is insanely grateful for that.

 

“Guys, gather round!”

 

He pulls a hand down his face and grimaces at the amount of sweat he gathers on his palm. Holy shit, he thinks, I'm definitely out of shape right now. Carefully avoiding the stands and the hateful banners he knows can be seen there, he keeps his eyes on his coach. Lopetegui barely waits for the entire team to assemble before he waves them closer until they're standing in a close huddle. Gerard can feel the concerned side-glances of his teammates, but he doesn't dare look up from the tips of his shoes, lest he looses it in front of everyone, press and jeering fans included.

 

“I have decided to cut the training short today.” Gerard's head snaps up almost against his will, but his coach isn't looking at him, addressing the whole team instead, even though the reason why can only be Gerard himself. “Let's wrap this up as quickly as possible with a cool-down session.”

 

Lopetegui signals his assistants to get on with it, and then he looks straight at him after all, his eyes incredibly worried, and Gerard realizes with a start that his own are wet with tears. They are dangerously close to falling already, too, and he shifts from foot to foot as suddenly, everything becomes too much and all he can think of is getting away. Lopetegui seems to pick up on that, and he subtly inclines his head towards the exit to the dressing room. Gerard barely manages to nod his thanks before hurrying off the pitch, the taunts and whistles trailing behind him like a shadow. 

 

The dressing room itself is empty and eerily quiet, and somehow, that unnerves him even more, used as he is to the merry mess his teammates create every time they are here. He knows, he _knows_ he shouldn't be able to hear the fans through the multiple doors and walls separating him from the stands, but the terrible sounds keep echoing around his brain. So he does the only thing he can still think of: sitting down heavily on a bench, hiding his face behind his hands and letting the tears fall. Ridiculous sobs wreck his body, shortening his unsettled breathing even further, and he has to fight for every puff of air. 

 

The obnoxious noises he makes cover the footsteps until they stop right next to him, but before he can think of being embarrassed and/or fleeing, he's manhandled into a tight hug. He doesn't even have time to see who it is. Red training kit, black boots, his sluggish mind supplies, with tattoos covering every inch of visible skin. _Aww hell!_ He knows those tattoos, has watched them spread across his body ever since they faced off as hardly-more-than-teenagers for the first time in La Liga, many years ago. 

 

It should probably freak him out, being comforted by Sergio Ramos of all people, but he simply can't gather the strength to be put out. Instead, he clings back just as tightly and tries matching Sergio's breathing rhythm, who makes an effort to keep it calm and clear for him. It's been a long time since he's shared a long embrace with anyone but his girlfriend or his kids, and he knows it should be mortifying, but he simply can't bring himself to care. The anxious energy that drove him up the walls just a minute before has burnt out, leaving him strangely numb and resigned.

 

A gentle pat to his back wakes him from the mindless trance he's fallen into, and he slowly pulls back until Sergio has no choice but to let him go. He uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe at his eyes and nose, but he can only waste so much time, and soon enough, they sit next to each other in an awkward silence. Neither of them is eager to make eye contact, but they don't move away either, both aware there are things that need to be said, yet unable to think of a way to say them.

 

It's Sergio who tries first, and his voice is oddly low and soft. “They did a number on you, eh?”

 

Gerard snorts and shakes his head. “It's silly, right? I've been jeered at on and off throughout my whole career, just because I want my people to be happy, and-”

 

He cuts himself off, afraid he has said too much already. The referendum and the discussion of independence is a topic everyone in the national team is trying to steer clear off with each other, lest they start arguments that can never be solved but would only lead to unnecessary unrest within the squad. Sergio especially is someone Gerard would never consider asking for his opinion on the matter. Despite the continuous displays of support from his teammate, they have actually never talked about the cause of all the upheaval. Sergio is a Spaniard through and through, unfamiliar and therefore uncomfortable with Catalan politics due to his Sevillan upbringing and Madridista standing. Such a conversation could only lead to blows – verbal at the very least – in the long run, and that's why they both respected that boundary.

 

Seems like there is no way around it now, and Gerard braces himself for the inevitable.

 

“Fucking assholes, all of them.” Gerard's eyes snap to his face then, and it baffles him to find Sergio looking absolutely _livid._ “Judging you like they know what it means to play for Spain. They know _shit_ , if you ask me.”

 

Gerard has a hard time following this turn of events. Showing support on Twitter in a PR campaign call for unity – an essential part of being team captain – is not the same as doing it face to face where no one else can hear. “What?” 

 

Sergio clicks his tongue, impatient, but it's clear his anger is not directed at Gerard. “It sucks when politics get tangled with football. Then again, Spanish fans will always find a reason to whistle, won't they? Every other week, someone else gets the stick at the Bernabéu, and most of the time, I have no idea why. Sometimes I wonder if they do, or if they just need an excuse to distract themselves from their own problems.”

 

“Just to be clear,” Gerard starts, slowly, unsure he got that right. “The fact they were hurling abuse at me pisses you off?”

 

Sergio looks at him like he's gone mad. “Yeah, of course.”

 

“But you're not angry at me for bringing politics to our doorstep in the first place?”

 

Sergio huffs and leans back against the lockers. “It's just as political to be openly gay as a still active player.” He quickly holds up a hand when Gerard opens his mouth to object. “I know it's not exactly the same, but the point is: the team decided they would not be swayed by all the pressure from people who thought I shouldn't represent Spain. They supported me because I still wanted to play for my country, and I think we should do the same for you, for as long as you want to play for Spain.”

 

Gerard blinks in surprise, and his gaze is drawn to Sergio's upper arm where the captain's armband would sit in a game, as if he can't quite grasp the fact that Sergio – wild, reckless, combative Sergio – actually made it this far. “Shit... When did you grow up?”

 

Sergio smiles weakly, and his shrug says 'Yeah, I know.', but he obviously can't resist a comeback. “When did you grow old?”

 

It's meant to lighten the mood, but it triggers the opposite, as Gerard's face falls immediately. “Hell if I know,” he says, and his voice sounds just as sad and defeated as he looks.

 

Sergio starts squirming then, cursing himself under his breath as his hands worry at the hem of his training shirt. “Dammit, Geri. I didn't mean to-”

 

“It's okay,” Gerard waves him off. “I decided to quit after Russia a long time ago.”

 

He can't help but smirk lightly at Sergio's fidgeting. The Blanco hates mistakes – _hates_ them – and he takes slip-ups in the line of captain duty extra-hard. Usually, Gerard would enjoy watching his defence partner on international and mortal enemy on national level loose his cool. It doesn't happen that often anymore, Sergio flying off the handle and terrorizing everyone around him whenever he thinks it's a matter of doing the right thing. It used to be quite entertaining when they were young and still wet behind the ears. But from what Gerard heard, the mellowing of his famous temper is not only down to age and experience, but also his husband. He never met Fernando, but the people who did can't seem to stop raving about him and the sway he holds over Sergio. Funnily enough, people would say the exact same thing about him and Shakira.

 

“Don't sweat it,” he adds, shaking off that train of thought. “I know better than to take you seriously.”

 

Sergio doesn't bite, unfortunately, and frowns instead. Gerard has a feeling it's not a reaction to his dig, though. The idiot just won't stop holding himself to unreachable standards, even though he knows he will only ever manage to fail. “Sese,” he says, with feeling this time, hoping that the nickname will somehow penetrate his teammate's thick skull. “Chill, it's fine.” 

 

It's not, won't be for a long time yet, and Sergio knows it, too. It's a mystery to Gerard when exactly he developed such a keen sense of empathy since he used to be so focused on himself and his own ambitions for as long as he's known him. Must be the captain badge, he muses, or his young family. Steady relationships and the responsibility of raising kids can do that to you, Gerard knows as much from experience. Meanwhile, Sergio's frown only gets deeper, and Gerard is suddenly afraid he offended him after all, somehow. It's always been an easy task, one he's been only too happy to take up, but this conversation feels much too important to be wasted with pushing Sergio's buttons. 

 

“I got you, brother. You know that, right?”

 

Gerard's eyebrows climb into his hairline. Okay, he didn't see that one coming, either. He clears his throat several times, trying to find the right words to answer, but he can't hold Sergio's intense and earnest gaze when he finally replies. “I know that. And I appreciate your support, brother.”

 

Something loosens in Sergio's posture at the return of the term 'brother', his hands finally stilling on his knees, and Gerard breathes a sigh of relief. Seems like he dodged that bullet after all. “Someone in the team gives you shit, you tell me, okay?”

 

Gerard just barely manages to avoid rolling his eyes. That's the Sergio he got to know all those years ago: once on your side, he is hell-bent on going all protective over you, whether you actually want it or not. But then again, maybe Gerard needs it more than he is prepared to admit even to himself. So he swallows the sarcastic reply that's waiting on the tip of his tongue and nods instead, irrationally grateful to be included in Sergio's circle of people-he-watches-over. Not that he'd ever tell him that. His Blanco ego can certainly go without an additional boost.

 

Sergio nods back and leans over to give him a quick peck on the cheek before standing to go and attend to the rest of his flock. Gerard accepts the kiss without a fuss, but he just can't pass up the perfect chance at pushing those buttons. “Won't Fernando get jealous,” he quips at Sergio's retreating back, his voice still scratchy and teary-sounding, and he is relieved to hear his teammate laugh out loud in response.

 

“Fuck off,” Sergio tells him over his shoulder, but there is no bite in it. “It's not like you're that great to look at.”

 

Gerard flips him the bird, even though he can't see it, and relaxes back against the lockers. Well, he thinks, that could've gone much worse.

 

 

— † —

 

 

Boys will be boys. xD

 


End file.
